Page 107 of Pretend for Me

[Menon-Parker Wedding]

Brandy

Hey guys! Great news! U2 is confirmed to play at your wedding! . Dev, Bono was touched by your call last week and happy to know that U2 is your mom’s favorite band. They’re looking forward to celebrating with you guys and to meeting Claire as well.

Ibring my phone closer to read the text from our wedding planner before tossing it back on the nightstand. Brandy won’t be getting much of a response; she hasn’t with the past three messages she’s sent.

My bloodshot eyes land on an unfinished crossword puzzle—one I planned to finish with Piper three nights ago, before she left and took my fucking soul with her.

Except now it’s unclear if the damn puzzle will ever be solved.

Or if I’ll ever get my soul back.

There’s no misery worse than this. This constantreaching for my phone every time it buzzes, hoping it’s her. This sifting through her socials, hoping to get a recent glimpse of her. This endless wondering if she’s thinking about me or if she’ll even show up to our wedding four days from now.

I need to be admitted to a mental institution or become a case study for how your phone can become your emotional support device. Maybe they can also do a study of how confessing your feelings to the woman you love can be both the best and worst decision of your life.

My confession echoes in my mind, along with her silence. I should have read the signs then. I’d scared the lights out of her. She’d stayed for the few minutes afterward—even laid in my arms and asked me about my shitty day—but then her body had caught up to her mind and she had a fucking panic attack.

All from what I’d said to her.

And even as I watched her demons surface and her breaths shorten, making it one of the scariest moments I’ve experienced, I still couldn’t get myself to take my words back.

I love her, and that is a truth I’ll nevernotfeel.

I promised myself the day she left that I’d respect her request for time and space. That I wouldn’t drive by her salon or check in with her friends to see if she was okay.

But with every day that passes where I’ve gotten nothing but silence from her, that promise hangs precariously on a frayed line.

When she told me she needed time away, the gravity of her words didn’t quite register. I’d understood that she needed space to be able to think with a clear head. What I didn’t realize, until I saw her bag and her caged rabbits at the front door, was that she meant real space. Actual time apart.

The vision felt familiar, much like the way Camila had left, but the searing pain was different. A thousand times worse. The type of pain I don’t see myself ever getting over—at least, not without the help of a lobotomy—unless she comes back.

I run a hand through my hair, getting a whiff of myself and cringing at the smell of booze and perspiration. Yeah, so personal hygiene has taken a backseat to wallowing in misery over the past few days. I might have also had most of that fifty-year-old bottle of Glenfiddich. Add that to the list of my fucking problems.

Thankfully, I’d taken this and next week off work for the wedding, so my dad isn’t also up my ass about missing meetings. Though, after the less-than-amenable conversation we had last time, I’m not sure he’s going to be saying anything for a little while.

My doorbell rings, followed by a sharp knock, and I bring up an app on my phone to view who’s at the front door.

Hudson Fucking Case.

A part of me thought he was joking when he said he was on his way to my house, but I should have known better. The man is as irritatingly loyal as he is grumpy. And though he lives in Portland now with his wife Kavi, he’s always made time to meet up when he’s in town, either for business or to check on his ranch. I take it this visit coincides with the wedding he thinks he’s going to—mine.

Well, I have news for him . . .

Wait, actually, do I have news for him? I might have given him that news already in our group chat, hence the reason he’s shown up.

I chuckle at my internal use of hence, knowing my sister would roll her eyes, calling me an artifact or someone from mid-century Europe.

Okay, so maybe I’m not at my Sunday best today. Specifically, I might still be slightly inebriated after a night of consuming more than I usually do. It could also explain why my head feels like it’s going to explode.

Hudson rings the bell again, and I sigh with a mix of annoyance and begrudging gratitude. The man is nothing ifnot persistent and one of the only people, besides the Meyer brothers, who could give two shits about my wealth or name. Sure, he is plenty wealthy himself, but he’d be just as likely to show up here, ready to be annoying, if I lived in a cardboard box.

I click on a button on my phone to chat through the speaker at the front door. “Go away, Case. I’m sure there are some rowdy teens having a party you need to report or an episode of Matlock you’re missing.”

“Open the door, jackass. I’m only ringing the bell as a courtesy. I have a keycard to get in.”

Jesus. What the hell? How does he have access to my damn house?

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